


Spike's Monster (1/1)

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-25
Updated: 2011-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:44:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some time post-seris, Spike finds himself in a dangerous predicament.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spike's Monster (1/1)

**Author's Note:**

> For the spook_me marathon, where my prompts were "mad scientist" and the image beneath the cut. Also incorporates the angst_bingo prompt "cage." Huge thanks to my beta, silk_labyrinth!

_**Spike's Monster (1/1)**_  
 **Title** : Spike's Monster  
 **Pairing:** Spike/Angel sort of  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** Some time post-seris, Spike finds himself in a dangerous predicament.  
 **Author's Notes:** For the spook_me marathon, where my prompts were "mad scientist" and the image beneath the cut. Also incorporates the angst_bingo prompt "cage." Huge thanks to my beta, silk_labyrinth!

 **  
  
Spike’s Monster   
**

 

“ ’T’s been done before, you know. Mary Shelley thought of it even before I was born and a mad bitch tried it again a few years back. Nothing original about your plans, wanker.”

The doctor looked up from his surgical table and smiled mildly. “Scientific progress is never truly original. The genius lies in improving on the steps that have been made before. Now, quiet or I’ll replace the muzzle.” The bright overhead lights made his scalpel gleam and the splashes of blood and other fluids stood out starkly against the white of his coat. He gave Spike an avuncular sort of wink and then bent his head again over his task.

Spike growled and rattled the bars of his cage. Not very effectively—his wrists were chained firmly behind his back and he knew already that the cage was stronger than he was—but he couldn’t simply sit there, all trussed up like a bloody Christmas goose.

His muscles were cramped and sore. The cage itself was only about three feet cubed and his ankles were fettered as tightly as his wrists, so he was forced to remain squatting, his back and neck slightly bowed. He’d been like that for many days, his only sustenance a few bottles of half-congealed pigs’ blood that the doctor had crammed through the bars, forcing Spike to suckle at them like a sodding gerbil. And he was cold: the bastard had taken Spike’s clothing and the big room was chilly, no doubt to help keep the meat from spoiling.

But the doctor was seemingly happy as a lark, humming slightly to himself as he stitched away at the lump of flesh in front of him. Spike wasn’t positive that his captor really was a doctor, although he insisted on being addressed that way and he seemed to have at least some knowledge of anatomy. He was in his late thirties, his thinning hair stuck up in messy tufts as if he hadn’t brushed it in some time, and his cheeks were heavily stubbled. Even across the room he reeked of sour sweat and chemicals and old food. Apparently personal hygiene was not particularly high on his list of priorities, but then it wasn’t as if his patients were susceptible to germs.

After a while Spike sighed, rested his head on his knees, and closed his eyes. He couldn’t block out the sounds and smells of his prison, but he could at least blot out the sight andremember where he’d been only a few weeks ago: unliving comfortably in a small flat, spending his afternoons reading and watching telly and playing video games, and his nights drinking and fighting monsters and shagging. A good existence, really, and a peaceful one. No hulking arsehole of a sire to boss him about and treat him like shite, no apocalypses to force self-sacrifice. Of course, it might have been nice to have someone at his back, so that when a human pretended to be vampire bait, and when Spike tried to warn the bloke away and ended up shot with a tranquilizer gun for his trouble, Spike would have had some hope of being rescued. As it was, nobody would even notice he was gone, and nobody would particularly care.

He sighed again. Maybe his situation hadn’t been quite as nice as he told himself. Perhaps he had been a bit lonely. But it was loads better than being stuffed in a cage, waiting to be chopped to bits.

The doctor put his needle on the table and flexed his hands for a few moments. He walked toward the door and Spike thought he was going to turn off the lights and leave the room. Spike wasn’t certain whether he was welcoming the brief reprieves anymore; perhaps it would be better simply to get the inevitable over with. But no, the doctor instead opened the small refrigerator—not the huge one where he kept spare bits—and pulled out a can of Coke and a sandwich in a plastic baggie. He set the items on the counter, pulled off his green latex gloves, and ate his meal. Sometimes he paused in his chewing to make brief entries in a notebook he kept on the counter. Spike didn’t know whether he was taking notes on his experiments, on his lunch, or on something else altogether.

When the sandwich was gone, the doctor washed his hands. When he reached for a locked cupboard near the fridge, Spike tensed. So did the other half-dozen captive vampires. Unlike Spike, they were all thoroughly gagged, and they made garbled snarling sounds as the doctor pulled a gun from the cupboard, loaded it with a dart, and ambled toward the cages.

The man seemed to consider his options carefully, like someone choosing between brands of toothpaste at the grocer’s. Finally he moved to the cage next to Spike’s, where a huge vamp with a shaved head was jammed even more uncomfortably than Spike. “Yes,” said the doctor to himself. “This one will do nicely.” The vampire squirmed desperately, the doctor raised his pistol and fired, and the vamp howled as the dart buried itself in his wide bicep. Within a few moments, he was slumped against the bars, unconscious.

But the doctor was a cautious man, it seemed. Before he unlocked the cage he put the gun away and fetched a cattle prod. He stuck the tip of the prod between the bars and up against the vampire’s flank. When he activated the device Spike could hear the electrical buzz and smell burning flesh, but the vamp didn’t even twitch. “Excellent,” said the doctor, setting the prod aside. “Definitely ready.”

The doctor unlocked the cage. Then he was faced with the task of dragging a heavy body across the room; the doctor was a big man but the vampire was much larger. “Need a hand with that, doc?” asked Spike as he watched the man struggle. “Just let me out.”

The doctor glanced his way, seemingly unperturbed. Bastard never seemed to lose his temper—Spike could goad him for ages and then the doctor would whistle cheerfully as he Tasered him and strapped a gag in his mouth. “Don’t worry. You’ll have your turn soon enough,” the doctor chuckled. “But I’m glad you’re enthusiastic about making your contribution to science.”

“Tosser,” Spike muttered to himself. It didn’t help him feel any better.

The doctor grabbed the unconscious vampire’s feet and dragged him across the room. He must have planned for this eventuality because he had a surgical table that could lower and raise on a hydraulic lift. Right then the table was nearly flush with the floor so it didn’t take much effort for him to maneuver the vampire onto it. He unfastened the vamp’s chains and locked him firmly to the table with a series of heavy steel bands. With a flick of a switch, the table rose.

Spike’s gut twisted as the doctor fetched a saw, donned fresh gloves, and began hacking at the vampire’s right arm. The unfortunate demon woke as the blade was still halfway through the joint; he tried to scream and thrash, but the bonds held him quite still and by the time the doctor began on the other arm the vampire was only making harsh choking sounds.

The doctor had to unlock the severed limbs before he carried them over to the other table. He set the arms against the torso that was already there; there were no lungs in the gaping body cavity, so the skinless head attached to the torso could only open and close its jaw like a gasping fish. 

“Soon you’ll be able to scratch your nose,” said the doctor. “Well, when you have a nose that is. And I’ve given you nice big hands. Strong.”

He left the arms where they were, then returned to the involuntary donor and spent several minutes poking and prodding at the vampire’s other bits, no doubt assessing whether they might be useful. Finally he shrugged. “Nope. Not what I’m looking for.” He pulled a wooden stake from inside his lab coat. Spike thought the vampire looked relieved as the wood slammed into his heart.

It took some time for the doctor to tidy up afterward. He mopped up the blood and ashes and wiped down the table before lowering it to the ground again. Then he looked at the disconnected arms and looked at his watch and seemed to consider. Finally, he sighed. “Guess it’s time to call it a day.” He stowed the arms in the big refrigerator, gave the room a final, satisfied glance, and turned off the lights.

***

A few days later, the monster could wiggle its fingers and toes. It had lungs now but no tongue, so when it wasn’t gagged it made horrible pleading sounds. The doctor had given it a face, stolen from a vampire who’d been turned young enough to have nearly flawless skin—and hadn’t it been fun to listen to that poor devil screech as his face was torn away. The scalp came from a different vampire, whose hair was thick and black and lustrous. “Oh, you’ll be a beauty,” the doctor crooned, stroking his creation’s cheek. The monster, his eye sockets empty, didn't return the gaze.

Spike knew his turn was next. There remained only one captive besides him, and the doctor had fed Spike especially well that morning, giving him three bottles of blood instead of the usual single. He wasn’t surprised when the doctor approached his cage, gun in hand.

“I saved the world, you know,” Spike said, knowing it wouldn’t make a difference. “More than once.”

The doctor chuckled. “Oh, I doubt that. But that’s all right—you’re doing your part for humankind now. When I prove how well my technique works, all those ridiculous slayer girls will be able to go back to shopping and trying on makeup and the world will have custom-made drones at our disposal.”

“Sexist.”

“No, I’m a realist. Imagine—we’ll be able to construct short drones with very strong arms to work in the mines. No more lives lost to accidents. And I can make drones with tails and flippers instead of feet to dive into the sea. They could repair the next oil pipeline leak or the next endangered ship. I can make them very small—no legs at all, just narrow bodies and long arms—to wiggle into complicated machinery or between the floors of high rises. Someday my drones may even travel in space! Just a head alone with enough of a body to sustain existence, and that drone could operate a computer to pilot a ship. Imagine the possibilities!”

“You’re barmy.”

“Small minds can’t see the difference between insane and visionary,” the doctor replied calmly. Then he pulled the dart gun’s trigger.

When Spike woke up his head was throbbing and the bright overhead lights hurt his eyes. He was chained to one of the metal tables, the steel bands digging into his skin tightly enough that he could smell his own blood. Even his head was fastened securely in place and a metal gag was inserted deeply in his mouth. He remembered another laboratory, other humans in white coats, and all reason left him as he attempted fruitlessly to buck and thrash and scream.

He regained himself some time later. Tears had slipped from his eyes and were tickling the side of his face, and the doctor was standing over him, humming to himself, holding up a scalpel to examine the blade. “You have a very pretty face,” the doctor said, “but I already have a better one. Shame. But you have some other nice features too.” He smiled and set the scalpel onto the table, then began to fondle Spike’s cock and balls.

Spike made a strangled sound. He’d tried to ready himself for this, but no amount of preparation could keep him calm when a warm, soft hand was stroking his shaft proprietarily, pulling the foreskin back and forth, then weighing his bollocks in a palm. He squeezed his eyelids shut and tried to pretend he was somewhere else—anywhere else—but he couldn’t block the sensation, and he groaned when he felt his cock begin to fill.

The doctor laughed delightedly. “Oh, that’s beautiful! I won’t initially tell investors that drones could be manufactured for sexual service—the subject’s a little too sensitive, I think—but they’ll get the hint, especially when my demo model’s so well equipped.” He stroked for several more minutes until Spike was breathing heavily through his nose, and then the doctor let go. Clear, sticky fluid dripped slowly from Spike’s cock onto his belly. “First things first,” said the doctor.

The doctor left the table and Spike couldn’t turn his head to watch. He tried instead to steady himself with good memories: the feel of Drusilla in his arms; Buffy calling him her Champion; that one day shortly before the final battle at Wolfram & Hart, when he and Angelput aside their ancient animosity and comforted one another and gave each other strength. But Dru was long gone and Buffy didn’t want him and Angel was strutting about Los Angeles again, too good for the likes of Spike.

Perhaps he deserved damnation for the atrocities he’d committed before he had a soul. Perhaps nothing could offset the horrors he was responsible for, not even saving the world. But he’d hoped to end with more dignity than this: bound and humiliated and cut for spare parts. 

He’d hoped he wouldn’t end alone.

The doctor returned to the table. Spike couldn’t stop him from taking bits of tape and affixing them to Spike’s eyelids so that the lids couldn’t close. He couldn’t wipe the smug little grin off the bastard’s face. He couldn’t move away from the fingers that caressed his scar, his jawline and cheekbones. And he couldn’t even scream properly when the shiny metal instrument reached his eye.

***

He’d hoped that would be the end of it; that the doctor would just bloody dust him and be done. But Spike woke up again—still splayed on the cold metal table. The overhead lights were no longer a bother at least, but the empty sockets in his skull itched and burned maddeningly and the darkness was more profound than he’d ever imagined.His tackle was still attached, or at least he assumed it was because he felt no pain at his groin. He was able to draw a small bit of comfort from that.

It was only when the monster beside him made a soft questioning sound that Spike realized that his muzzle was gone. He licked his cracked lips. “Can you understand me?” he asked.

The monster grunted affirmatively.

“Have you my eyes now?”

Another grunt that made Spike’s chest feel tight as the bands that held him.

“The things those eyes have seen, mate. End of the world, more than once. Hell. Loving smiles. Seen five bloody continents, more wars than I can count. Seen the bottom of the sea, the inside of a grave, seen devils and gods.”

The monster made another noise, a plaintive sort of whimper, and Spike discovered he could still produce tears. He sniffed and wished he could wipe at his face. “Won’t tell you where my todger’s been. I expect you won’t want to hear that bit. Look. The doctor—the one bit he can’t transplant is my soul. That’s mine. I expect you haven’t one of your own, but perhaps I’m wrong. When he’s done with you, the first chance you get, you tear that fucker to pieces, yeah? Don’t let him … don’t let him do this again.”

He didn’t know whether the monster understood him nor whether his demand would be heeded, but it was all he could do. A bare moment later a door clicked open, bringing the scent of dirty human. The doctor’s shoes clicked against the hard floor. 

“Let’s see how those peepers are working,” the doctor said. “Ah. Very nice. It’s amazing how well vampire nerves regenerate, given the proper pharmaceutical support. And no worries about organ rejection either.” He tsked. “Such fortunate creatures.”

Spike laughed bitterly. 

Cupboards banged, something clattered, and a moment later footsteps approached him. Still, he startled a bit when a warm hand settled on his upper thigh. “Those blue eyes look very nice in my creation. Pretty.”

“Bugger off,” Spike replied without real heat.

The doctor simply chuckled. A buzzing sound began and Spike tensed, but then he realized that it was only an electric shaver. The doctor ran the device over Spike’s groin and then very carefully over his scrotum. The towel that followed was soaked in alcohol; it was very cold and it stung the skin. At least the naughty touching was kept to a minimum. Perhaps it was too difficult to amputate an erect cock.

Spike wanted to rant and rave, but what was the point of it? He bit his lip instead and clung desperately to the shreds of his dignity as the doctor walked away, whistling a jaunty little tune, and then returned to the table.

One rubber-coated hand gathered Spike’s genitals tightly. The very tip of the scalpel dug into the sensitive skin behind his bollocks. The blade was too sharp to truly hurt, at least not yet, but a trickle of blood ran down the crease of his arse. It tickled.

A bit of a deeper cut and it was clear that the bastard was drawing the process out. Spike held his breath and tried to blank his mind.

And then a huge commotion startled everyone. The scalpel slipped so that a deep furrow was sliced into his inner thigh, and then the metal clattered to the floor. The monster bellowed wordlessly. The doctor cried out as well, but Spike said nothing as a flurry of sounds erupted. Rushing feet, shouts and screams, things crashing to the ground. Spike fought against his fetters and tried to sort meaning from the chaos. The scent of his own blood and the doctor’s were thick in his nose and the noises too fast to discern.

When he was touched again—this time quite roughly—Spike grunted with surprise. “Who?” he demanded

“Oh fuck. Spike, oh fuck.”

A long breath escaped Spike’s lungs as he recognized the voice. “Angel?” he rasped.

“Hang on.”

By then the noises had quieted a bit, although the monster was wailing at his side. Angel’s hands disappeared, only to return a moment later to fumble at the locks that held Spike down. “Can you walk?” Angel asked.

“Yeah, I … yeah. Expect so.”

Angel grasped his hand and helped him upright. With some difficulty, Spike swung his feet over the table edge and, still clutching the metal for support, stood upright for the first time in ages. He was surprised when a leather coat that smelled strongly of his sire was settled on his shoulders.

“Who … how …” Spike had so many questions and he couldn’t seem to spit any of them out.

To his complete shock, Angel gathered him in his arms. Spike’s weight was mostly supported by Angel's bulky body, and it felt so bloody good that for just a moment Spike allowed himself to slump. Then he stood upright again, pulling back slightly.“What happened?” he said, and hated the shaky tone of his voice.

“I lost you. I’ve been looking for you and— Christ, Spike. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

“ ’M not a eunuch, at least.”

Angel snuffled at the crook of Spike’s neck, as if to make sure it was really him. “God, Spike. Your eyes.”

Spike just set his jaw.

Angel swore under his breath. “Let’s get the hell out of here, okay?” He put a strong arm around Spike’s shoulders and began to lead him away.

“Wait!” Spike said, digging in his heels.

“I killed him. A lot quicker than he deserved.”

“But the monster—”

Angel sighed. “Okay. Hang on. I’ll kill it too.”

“No!” Spike clutched at Angel’s arm. “He’s … wasn’t his fault, was it?”

He could easily imagine the pained expression on Angel’s face, and somehow that made him feel better. Angel said, “It’s made up of … pieces of vampire, Spike. It can’t—”

“Give him a chance at least. Please.” Spike had no idea why he was pleading the monster’s case, except that somehow the creature appeared to have become _his_ monster.

After a long pause, Angel sighed again and disentangled himself from Spike. Spike stood in the middle of the room, shivering, hearing the metal bands loosened. There was a heavy thump and a cry. “I don’t think it can walk,” Angel said.

“Never had the chance to before. I expect it needs to learn how.” Spike made his way cautiously to the sound of the monster’s noisy snuffling.Then he bent and was pleased to discover he had the strength to pick the creature up. The monster shifted slightly in his arms, buried its face in Spike’s shoulder, and wrapped its arms tightly around him. The monster smelled of human blood—likely splattered from the doctor—and of a dozen different demons, and of Spike himself.

Angel set his big hand between Spike’s shoulderblades. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

The three of them shuffled slowly out of the room and then out of the building, Angel providing gentle guidance the entire way. It was raining slightly outside, just a soft drizzle that settled cooly on bare skin. The monster gasped at the sensations and the images and held Spike tighter. Of course—the poor sod had never experienced anything but the inside of the doctor’s laboratory.

“It’ll be all right,” Spike murmured, to himself as much as the monster.

Angel patted his childe gently on the back. “It will. It’ll be fine.”

Spike clutched his monster tightly, and decided to believe.

 _  
~~~fin~~~   
_

 

  
  



End file.
